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acdholmesfestTitle: The East End Golem
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
huntingospray
Author:sevs_girl72
Rating: PG
Characters/pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, undercurrents of Holmes/Watson, and vague reference to Holmes/OMC
Warnings: Some violence and contextual anti-semitism
Summary: Watson returns from a holiday in the north worried about Holmes’ health, but crime never ceases. The pair descend into the maze of the Jewish Quarters of East London in 1897 and come face to face with an ancient legend that reawakens some hiatus angst and hurt feelings.
Word Count: 4478
Disclaimer: I owe everything to ACD and more than a little to the Granada version of these most beloved stories.
Notes: I am no expert on the conditions or life in the East End of London at the end of the 19th century so I apologize in advance.
From the Private Notebooks of John H. Watson, M.D.
In the late Autumn of 1897 I returned from a week excursion in the north just in time to witness the conclusion of a bizarre case that Holmes had gotten involved in. As I sit recording this in our sitting room some days after, I still feel perplexed about the glimpse I was given into the three years of my friend’s absence. I have not yet unraveled what exactly it all means, but it is a marked event in the course of our friendship that has made me take pause to record it for myself.
I had, on invitation from Stamford, left for a week of brisk Cumbrian air and a little sport. I have been severely anxious about my friends health of late which, despite our outing to Cornwall in the spring, still showed wear. Holmes had been ignoring my insistence that he slow down and often after a busy day at my practice I’d return to find our rooms noxious with tobacco smoke, experiments bubbling away or with some class of client expounding their stories.
We had not seen much of each other as my practice had picked up so I had little to do with his cases that summer. We would pass the odd evening away by the hearth during which Holmes would regale me, in strict fact of course, latest news from the Yard: Bradstreet’s latest bumbling of the Victoria Station vandals case or Lestrade’s blindness to facts left him, once again, with the wrong conclusion in a grisly murder of a Rabbi. I jotted a few notes for my writings, but I was more occupied attempting to use some deductive techniques of my own to determine what, if anything, I could do to get Holmes to take his health more seriously.
It did not take his great detective skills to notice that along with his health he seemed distracted as if there were something greater on the horizon that I could not yet see. In memory, I could recall only two other instances of a similar distraction. Once when Moriarty was still only a name and the other a moment in Woking with Tadpole Phelps and the Naval Treaty case. I had a strong belief that if only I could discover the source of this distraction it would lead to some alleviation of whatever ailed him. What I did know for sure was that it all began sometime after the Cornish horror case. However, I was feeling the wear of constant work myself. When, by chance, I had met Stamford on the Strand with an offer to accompany him for a weeks holiday, I lept at the chance.
It was a relaxing week, but my mind was often back at Baker Street wondering how my friend was faring. It was with some relief then that I had arrived back in London on a late Saturday afternoon to find Baker Street in a frenzy of commotion. The rambling feet of Holmes’ Irregulars nearly bowled me over. Their chorus of "Af’ernoon Doctor Watson" echoed me over the threshold as they rushed their way down Baker Street toward Oxford Street. The apprehension that accompanied my return to 221B after a time away usually made me linger just in the door hoping to gain some clue as to the sort of mood Holmes would be in. The jostling Irregulars in full tilt could only mean some criminal element was afoot and I was in hopes of finding him poised as a jubilant hound on the scent of a criminal. I took to the well-worn and familiar seventeen steps up to our rooms looking forward to whatever adventure was ahead of me.
"What news from the North, Watson?" Holmes voice filtered out of the sitting room as I reached the landing. I placed my Gladstone bag on the floor and entered our sitting room delighted to see the controlled disaster that spoke of late nights of smoking and several experiments on the go rather than the black moods that speak of lack of work and stagnation, but it was only further proof that he still had not heeded the orders to slow down. Holmes was seated at his writing desk, scribbling a note, and did not yet turn to greet me.
"Fine weather, but a dense mist spoiled our sport." I settled in my usual chair by the fire to wait for him to conclude his business and continue.
"It is a shame you were not here sooner, for I could have truly used your keen intellect during this case." He said. His preoccupation at his correspondence gave me some moments to see what state Holmes was in. His slightly ashen pallor was still present, but otherwise he looked in fine form. There was something different though, a tenseness that I’d not seen before in the set of his shoulders.
With several quick flourishes that spoke to his dramatic nature, Holmes swiftly sealed an envelop and called down to Mrs. Hudson to have it swiftly delivered. "However," He said joining me at the hearth, his dazzling gaze telling me that he was engaged in correcting some nefarious plot. "I would be grateful if you would accompany me this evening."
"I am, of course, always at your service, Holmes, but I’ve yet a moment to breath. Might we have time for a quick repa..."
"Ha! Good Watson!" My friend said, darting about the room deaf to my attempt to mention supper. "Always a gentleman of action." Holmes paused a moment before disappearing into his own room "And bring your revolver," he added gravely.
***
Holmes and I alighted from 221B just as the streetlamps were lit. With my old service revolver in my coat pocket and Holmes armed with one of his heavier walking sticks, he hailed a cab at the end of Baker Street. As the ride set off, Holmes was silent for a long while. I turned to question him about the case, but something in the shadows passing across his pointed features told me that it was best to wait. I could not escape the feeling that there was something about where we were going that was worrying him. I wonder if the abundance of work over the past few months had been more a need for distraction from whatever else was at work.
Holmes must have seen we were nearing on Whitechapel as he suddenly came alive again. "A young lady came to me two days ago. Her cousin, a friend of mine, a watchmaker, urged her to seek me out. Her father has been missing for two weeks. The man had disappeared into the night after a knock at the door. The young lady, being in the other room, heard only hushed voices before the door slammed, then silence. When she went to look out she was given no clue as to where they had gone."
I was curious of Holmes’ mentioning someone of intimacy enough to be called friend was rare. In fact, apart from myself and the recollection of the case involving Victor Trevor I had not known Sherlock Holmes to call any other friend.
"That is not much to go on, Holmes."
"No, but there are some intriguing aspects to her story. He obviously went willingly."
"Is her father a large man?" I asked.
"Precisely the question I put to her. The lady told me her father is, in fact, an exceedingly large man."
"So, if it was a question of kidnapping there would have been some fight."
"That could be expected, but, as you very well know Watson, there are plenty of chemical materials that would function to fell a man."
"Yes, but then it would be a question of how to carry him. You said the girl only heard two voices."
"Indeed, but I’ve not told you the curious part." Holmes plucked a bit of paper out of his coat. "What do you make of that? It is a reproduction."
The foreign cursive markings excited me. It spoke of eastern lands and history I knew only as those ancient artifacts found at time during my time travelling to Afghanistan. "This looks like Hebrew, Holmes."
"Exactly. Something neither you, nor I, have any hope of reading."
"Where did it come from?"
"After my initial perusal of the scene of his disappearance, I made a precise study of the streets surrounding their lodgings for the past two days. I found that these markings were appearing daily across the thresholds in the direct vicinity."
"What could it possibly mean?" I asked looking back at the
"As to its meaning, that is where we are going first to find out. As to the who, it is the missing man, of course. What I’m after now is the why."
I could see some of the threads that Holmes had no doubt already picked up on, but I could not see how he came to his conclusion. No doubt it would all be clear, to him at least, before then end.
"And the message you sent off before we left?"
"That was to Lestrade. How much you have missed, Watson! If you remember, before your foray into the North, Lestrade had attempted to convince me to take on his jailbreak."
"I certainly remember that. The man that had slain a Rabbi, Thors..." I said.
"Thornton." Holmes corrected.
"Yes, that’s right. I recalled that Holmes was quite terse with Lestrade and the ineffectuality of the police about that. Lestrade had left in a huff, not able to understand why Holmes had told him that he was not there to make up for the constabularies inefficiencies to keep the coup closed. "But what do the two incidents have to do with each other?"
"I suspect that our escapee does not only have the police on his trail. As you know, I do not often guess, but as the man was retained for specifically targeting those of that ancient faith I believe him to be frequenting and targeting the Jewish quarters once again."
Holmes stopped the cab at Whitechapel and Commercial. "Walk swift and follow close Watson." He leaned over and whispered in my ear as we exited the cab. There was something in the warning that chilled me to the core and I gripped my revolver tightly in my pocket as if it were a source of warmth.
The streets we traversed were testament to the overcrowding that had been of serious discussion in the press. As we wound our way down the dank streets just north of the London Docks it was strange to nearly trip over men laying in the streets. The sheer testament to need and wanting was in every sight, sound and smell. To push through a gaggle of children circled around fires for heat, coughing and shivering. It was a forlorn and friendless place.
Holmes sped me further and I realized how utterly lost in this crowd I’d be without him. Their obvious stagnation as a population hit in contrast to Holmes’s urging me deeper and deeper into the gloom. My friend on the other hand seemed to not notice this, his eye always on the case at hand. I knew better than to assume the coldness that Stamford had initially warned me of after our first meeting for his gaggle of spies and Irregulars from these very streets were always well paid for their work. But it made me ache that our grandest city in such a realm as ours had this dark side.
Holmes stopped abruptly stopped us and we retraced our steps back two streets before continuing down another. If Holmes had not told me he’d made a specific study of the streets for this case I would not had noted this as some lapse, but it spoke to the preoccupation I had noticed. We seemed to be back on track and as we made one last turn, I was suddenly shocked by the desertion of the street. I had the faith in Holmes to know that as long as I stayed by his side, he would know where we were. Twisting and turning down the cobble stone I had the sudden feeling that we had left London far behind and instead were trailing into the heart of some labyrinth. The few storefronts were dark and dusty and soon their signs mirrored the eerie markings of the note Holmes had showed me in the cab. This was no longer London but some ancient world of which I was only a visitor. These streets were also deserted, or so they seemed. As my eyes adjust to the gloom I soon was able to see faces in the windows.
"Holmes...
"Strangers have an eye on them at all times in these streets, and those familiar are watched with two. This is not a our London, Watson, nor is this the East End we’ve just past through."
"But where is everyone?"
"It is their sabbath."
As the fog of dusk began to settle into the streets, we stopped in front of a door next to a darkened store front. Holmes knocked sharply twice and stood to wait. His eyes drifted to the doorpost above.
"This is the lady’s uncle’s shop?" I asked seeing the vast array of watches through the darkened window.
"Yes, Mordecai’s." Holmes said flatly. It was a strange tone for my friend at such a point of a case.
"Are you alright, Holmes?"
Holmes nodded once in ascent just as the door opened. The man that answered struck quite a figure in the doorframe, casting a long shadow against the brightness inside and the gloom without. He was shorter than both Holmes and myself, but had a lean frame and glasses that spoke to his profession.
"Ah Sigerson!" He grasped my friends hand in a joyful shake. "Oh forgive me, Holmes. How good to see you again!" In spite of the circumstances that man seemed to almost electric in his joy. He quickly ushered us in through the hall and into the shop and just stood looking at my friend. In the brightness, I couldn’t be very sure, but it looked as though Holmes had a reddened hue upon his face. I wondered if it were some embarrassment of recalling those many years away, leaving me to believe him dead. Confronted with a very lively relic of those years I was sorely excluded from, I felt some a bitterness toward this man for the knowledge he had that I lacked.
"This is my friend, Doctor Watson." Holmes introduced us.
He grasped my hand in the same fashion. "It is very good to finally meet you, Doctor. Holmes, or Sigerson as I knew him then, told me of your chronicles. Since coming to England in the spring I have made sure to read them. An interesting life you share."
I thanked him very kindly and left Holmes to explain his findings while I took to browsing the shop and considering their interaction. Holmes and Mordecai exchanged a few sentences in rushed, hushed, tones. I tried to pitch myself in a position to hear, but could make nothing out. The shop was filled with the most remarkable oddities, not just watches and clocks, but souvenirs that inspired that same rush of exoctic ferver the writing had. Dusty books and watches were a plenty, but amongst a selection of boxes I saw something familiar. Pulling the paper with Holmes’s reproduction of the marks out of my pocket, I compared the two.
"Holmes, these are the markings!" I picked up the box and deposited it on the counter next to the two men. Holmes examined it closely.
"That is the Golem, Doctor." Mordecai said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Golem. A creature made of clay."
"Explain," Holmes urged.
"The Golem," He elucidated. "Is fashioned as a protector, in the legend he is made out of clay by a Rabbi, in the same way that God fashioned Adam. But the Golem is imperfect as man is imperfect. He can do only what the Rabbi orders. Every home the Rabbi marks off, he protects. Those markings in the street are what keep harm from the doors of the faithful and good."
"Yours had no marking." Holmes said bluntly.
Mordecai went pale. "You know as I that there are some that deem me neither faithful, nor good." He looked to Holmes and for a moment it appeared to me that some silent communication took place between them. I wondered how long they had spent together, and, dare I say, in what manner they had known each other. Threads of my own investigation appeared to be coming together now. This man had appeared in England in the spring, perhaps about the time we had returned from Cornwall. Mordecai’s joy, his quixotic explanations, and Holmes’ odd behaviour in his presence made me feel a certain distrust for this man. Holmes sniffed and shifted slightly.
"But, that is just a single opinion." Mordecai continued.
"What are we to do Holmes?" I asked, to return us to the case at hand.
"A trap." Holmes shuffled through the pockets of his coat before disappearing out the front door again. There was some shuffling at the door before his return.
"We will wait the evening out, here." Holmes moved a few things around by the storefront window, setting up a makeshift watch post. "And keep a close watch."
Holmes seated himself with the best vantage point and I sat next to him while Mordecai took the place opposite. As we settled down to wait I could feel the tautness in my friends body, ready to spring at a notice.
"Shouldn’t we have called Lestrade, Holmes? This is about his man after all."
"No, this is about the girls father. As for the jailbird, Lestrade can have him, but I will not have his branch of the constabulary descend into this shop without reason."
"Thank you, Holmes." Mordecai said in a soft whisper.
I cannot give name to the confusion that this vehement refusal, and Mordecai’s obvious relief caused. I first wondered if this had anything to do with the antagonistic relationship this end of London and the Jews had with the police, but Mordecai was no criminal. I tried to put Holmes’ methods to work.
Mordecai was being targeted from his own community by strict removal of the protection sign. I deduced it meant some broken taboo. I looked at the man himself, and compared to the general dilapidated clutter of his shop, he was certainly un petit-maître as was the vogue to call an immaculately dressed gentleman in the city these days. Not a figure one would expect here of all places. He displayed a tactile nature with Holmes, as in his greeting. With so close a familiarity, I wondered in that moment, not for the first time, about my friends affinities. As an army man, I had seen and known all sorts in times when all supposed morality looks insignificant in the face of complete destruction. In combination with the conclusion to the Cornish horror case, and now meeting this spectre from Holmes’ life, I considered my friend his with these new possibilities. Still, even as I write this down, I know I gained nothing from seeing Holmes, eyes were poised unmoving from the window, but my own roiled confusion between morals, the law, and my own thoughts.
Our vigil lasted well into the night. Just as my eyes began feeling the strain of a long journey south and the energy of a case began to wane a large shuffling form rounded into our sight. My stomach sank at the grotesque figure. "Holmes!" I said in a loud whisper, my hand going to my pocket to remove my revolver. Holmes’ hand clamped down on my arm and stopped me. His hot breath ghosted across my ear and he leaned over and whispered. "He may be a sight, Watson, but he is our missing man remember. The Golem is a protector."
"You don’t really believe in that Holmes?"
"I believe the man is certainly protecting these streets, but a man he is. Only made of as much clay as your or I."
"Then what are we doing?"
"Stopping murder and a good man from going to prison. Look," Homes pointed out the window.
While my eyes had been watching the gigantic figure, another player had come onto the scene, carrying something long that glinted in the moonlight, heading straight to Mordecai’s door. The Golem struck quicker than I would have supposed he could. From our vantage point, we saw the smaller man, Thornton I assume, being tossed easily away from the door and into the wall, the Golem moving after him. Holmes sprang and was out the door while I followed close behind and Mordecai brought up the rear.
The massive man turned at Holmes, rage in his eyes and before either of us could react he flung one arms at Holmes and sent him hurtling to the ground.
"Holmes!" My body instinctually lurched toward rushing to my friend’s side, but Mordecai got there quicker. When the man began to round on me, cutting me off from Holmes, I fired my service revolver into the air and the man froze immediately.
I could see him assessing Mordecai, in tandem with Holmes and myself and realizing his error. He stepped toward Holmes, who held up a hand to stop him. "You’re job here is done, Mr. Goldfeld." Holmes said through clenched teeth. "Go home." The man bowed and shuffled away. "Watson, check Thornton."
While I did as Holmes asked, I witnessed Holmes push Mordecai’s offer of help away. I suddenly realized that the glimpse of some affiliation between my friend and Mordecai was either unrequited or long over. I swiftly went to his side once I was sure the convict was unconscious and ordered Mordecai to watch him. Holmes accepted my help and together we got to him to his feet stiffly.
We met Lestrade and his constables at the same corner Holmes and I had stopped at in the evening. We were a different pair now with Holmes walking slowly and hanging onto my arm. Thornton marching sluggishly in front with my gun aimed at his back. We explained that we’d lost the one that had stopped Thornton.
"Lost him?" Lestrade repeated incredulously. "How could you lose him? He must have been a large lad to do this to this one." He gestured to the wagon now holding Thornton.
"Well, perhaps he crumbled to dust and took off on the wind." Holmes wheezed out with a laugh inspite of his injuries. Holmes’ enjoyment was often only present for case related things, but there was a gleam in his eyes whenever he had the chance to thwart Lestrade for some greater moral standard.
When finally made our return to Baker Street in the early morning hours. It had been a slow, arduous drive back as I kept my friend braced against my body to prevent any more injury from the jostling cab. I was worried that if it was a broken rib than any excess movement could lead to something more serious and even more so by how light my friend was in my arms. Neither of us were young men any more, but Holmes had always stood as a figure that was not confined to the mere body weaknesses and yet, as I helped him up our stairs I realize that it was only I that was privy to the life of Sherlock Holmes.
I helped him remove his jacket and shirt. I held back a gasp at the bruising already forming, but as I prodded against each rib, I relaxed. "It doesn’t appear you’ve broken anything, Holmes. You are lucky this time, old boy."
"What then, my good doctor Watson, is the prescribed course then."
"Several days rest, and as much warm tea and food as our landlady will bring to you. You must eat, Holmes. Do not think that I did not notice your pallor upon my return. You cannot expect to move as swiftly as you once did without proper nourishment."
Holmes let out a low, quiet laugh. "I would expect nothing less of you, having been under my tutelage these many years. "
"You have not explained two things about this case Holmes. Mordecai said that a Rabbi must send the Golem."
"That is neither our business, nor the law’s. Mordecai will bring it to their order’s attention.
"And Mordecai himself, who erased the sign from his door, and why?"
To answer that question would force me to break a shared confidence." Holmes paused and turned his grey eyes on me. "But, I suspect you’d garnered the reason during our vigil."
I was about to tell him I knew nothing of his reasoning, but Holmes interrupted. "We were two strangers in a forsaken land. Nor would he have been nearly as fantastical a biographer." He chuckled fondly and closed his eyes.
As conclude this entry, Holmes is still recuperating and for once following my orders. It will still be some days before he has regained his full mobility, but, as he is now joining me by the fire in our usual chairs, it feels distant from those nights during that busy summer of 1897.
Recipient:
huntingosprayAuthor:
sevs_girl72Rating: PG
Characters/pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, undercurrents of Holmes/Watson, and vague reference to Holmes/OMC
Warnings: Some violence and contextual anti-semitism
Summary: Watson returns from a holiday in the north worried about Holmes’ health, but crime never ceases. The pair descend into the maze of the Jewish Quarters of East London in 1897 and come face to face with an ancient legend that reawakens some hiatus angst and hurt feelings.
Word Count: 4478
Disclaimer: I owe everything to ACD and more than a little to the Granada version of these most beloved stories.
Notes: I am no expert on the conditions or life in the East End of London at the end of the 19th century so I apologize in advance.
The East-End Golem
From the Private Notebooks of John H. Watson, M.D.
In the late Autumn of 1897 I returned from a week excursion in the north just in time to witness the conclusion of a bizarre case that Holmes had gotten involved in. As I sit recording this in our sitting room some days after, I still feel perplexed about the glimpse I was given into the three years of my friend’s absence. I have not yet unraveled what exactly it all means, but it is a marked event in the course of our friendship that has made me take pause to record it for myself.
I had, on invitation from Stamford, left for a week of brisk Cumbrian air and a little sport. I have been severely anxious about my friends health of late which, despite our outing to Cornwall in the spring, still showed wear. Holmes had been ignoring my insistence that he slow down and often after a busy day at my practice I’d return to find our rooms noxious with tobacco smoke, experiments bubbling away or with some class of client expounding their stories.
We had not seen much of each other as my practice had picked up so I had little to do with his cases that summer. We would pass the odd evening away by the hearth during which Holmes would regale me, in strict fact of course, latest news from the Yard: Bradstreet’s latest bumbling of the Victoria Station vandals case or Lestrade’s blindness to facts left him, once again, with the wrong conclusion in a grisly murder of a Rabbi. I jotted a few notes for my writings, but I was more occupied attempting to use some deductive techniques of my own to determine what, if anything, I could do to get Holmes to take his health more seriously.
It did not take his great detective skills to notice that along with his health he seemed distracted as if there were something greater on the horizon that I could not yet see. In memory, I could recall only two other instances of a similar distraction. Once when Moriarty was still only a name and the other a moment in Woking with Tadpole Phelps and the Naval Treaty case. I had a strong belief that if only I could discover the source of this distraction it would lead to some alleviation of whatever ailed him. What I did know for sure was that it all began sometime after the Cornish horror case. However, I was feeling the wear of constant work myself. When, by chance, I had met Stamford on the Strand with an offer to accompany him for a weeks holiday, I lept at the chance.
It was a relaxing week, but my mind was often back at Baker Street wondering how my friend was faring. It was with some relief then that I had arrived back in London on a late Saturday afternoon to find Baker Street in a frenzy of commotion. The rambling feet of Holmes’ Irregulars nearly bowled me over. Their chorus of "Af’ernoon Doctor Watson" echoed me over the threshold as they rushed their way down Baker Street toward Oxford Street. The apprehension that accompanied my return to 221B after a time away usually made me linger just in the door hoping to gain some clue as to the sort of mood Holmes would be in. The jostling Irregulars in full tilt could only mean some criminal element was afoot and I was in hopes of finding him poised as a jubilant hound on the scent of a criminal. I took to the well-worn and familiar seventeen steps up to our rooms looking forward to whatever adventure was ahead of me.
"What news from the North, Watson?" Holmes voice filtered out of the sitting room as I reached the landing. I placed my Gladstone bag on the floor and entered our sitting room delighted to see the controlled disaster that spoke of late nights of smoking and several experiments on the go rather than the black moods that speak of lack of work and stagnation, but it was only further proof that he still had not heeded the orders to slow down. Holmes was seated at his writing desk, scribbling a note, and did not yet turn to greet me.
"Fine weather, but a dense mist spoiled our sport." I settled in my usual chair by the fire to wait for him to conclude his business and continue.
"It is a shame you were not here sooner, for I could have truly used your keen intellect during this case." He said. His preoccupation at his correspondence gave me some moments to see what state Holmes was in. His slightly ashen pallor was still present, but otherwise he looked in fine form. There was something different though, a tenseness that I’d not seen before in the set of his shoulders.
With several quick flourishes that spoke to his dramatic nature, Holmes swiftly sealed an envelop and called down to Mrs. Hudson to have it swiftly delivered. "However," He said joining me at the hearth, his dazzling gaze telling me that he was engaged in correcting some nefarious plot. "I would be grateful if you would accompany me this evening."
"I am, of course, always at your service, Holmes, but I’ve yet a moment to breath. Might we have time for a quick repa..."
"Ha! Good Watson!" My friend said, darting about the room deaf to my attempt to mention supper. "Always a gentleman of action." Holmes paused a moment before disappearing into his own room "And bring your revolver," he added gravely.
***
Holmes and I alighted from 221B just as the streetlamps were lit. With my old service revolver in my coat pocket and Holmes armed with one of his heavier walking sticks, he hailed a cab at the end of Baker Street. As the ride set off, Holmes was silent for a long while. I turned to question him about the case, but something in the shadows passing across his pointed features told me that it was best to wait. I could not escape the feeling that there was something about where we were going that was worrying him. I wonder if the abundance of work over the past few months had been more a need for distraction from whatever else was at work.
Holmes must have seen we were nearing on Whitechapel as he suddenly came alive again. "A young lady came to me two days ago. Her cousin, a friend of mine, a watchmaker, urged her to seek me out. Her father has been missing for two weeks. The man had disappeared into the night after a knock at the door. The young lady, being in the other room, heard only hushed voices before the door slammed, then silence. When she went to look out she was given no clue as to where they had gone."
I was curious of Holmes’ mentioning someone of intimacy enough to be called friend was rare. In fact, apart from myself and the recollection of the case involving Victor Trevor I had not known Sherlock Holmes to call any other friend.
"That is not much to go on, Holmes."
"No, but there are some intriguing aspects to her story. He obviously went willingly."
"Is her father a large man?" I asked.
"Precisely the question I put to her. The lady told me her father is, in fact, an exceedingly large man."
"So, if it was a question of kidnapping there would have been some fight."
"That could be expected, but, as you very well know Watson, there are plenty of chemical materials that would function to fell a man."
"Yes, but then it would be a question of how to carry him. You said the girl only heard two voices."
"Indeed, but I’ve not told you the curious part." Holmes plucked a bit of paper out of his coat. "What do you make of that? It is a reproduction."
גולם
The foreign cursive markings excited me. It spoke of eastern lands and history I knew only as those ancient artifacts found at time during my time travelling to Afghanistan. "This looks like Hebrew, Holmes."
"Exactly. Something neither you, nor I, have any hope of reading."
"Where did it come from?"
"After my initial perusal of the scene of his disappearance, I made a precise study of the streets surrounding their lodgings for the past two days. I found that these markings were appearing daily across the thresholds in the direct vicinity."
"What could it possibly mean?" I asked looking back at the
"As to its meaning, that is where we are going first to find out. As to the who, it is the missing man, of course. What I’m after now is the why."
I could see some of the threads that Holmes had no doubt already picked up on, but I could not see how he came to his conclusion. No doubt it would all be clear, to him at least, before then end.
"And the message you sent off before we left?"
"That was to Lestrade. How much you have missed, Watson! If you remember, before your foray into the North, Lestrade had attempted to convince me to take on his jailbreak."
"I certainly remember that. The man that had slain a Rabbi, Thors..." I said.
"Thornton." Holmes corrected.
"Yes, that’s right. I recalled that Holmes was quite terse with Lestrade and the ineffectuality of the police about that. Lestrade had left in a huff, not able to understand why Holmes had told him that he was not there to make up for the constabularies inefficiencies to keep the coup closed. "But what do the two incidents have to do with each other?"
"I suspect that our escapee does not only have the police on his trail. As you know, I do not often guess, but as the man was retained for specifically targeting those of that ancient faith I believe him to be frequenting and targeting the Jewish quarters once again."
Holmes stopped the cab at Whitechapel and Commercial. "Walk swift and follow close Watson." He leaned over and whispered in my ear as we exited the cab. There was something in the warning that chilled me to the core and I gripped my revolver tightly in my pocket as if it were a source of warmth.
The streets we traversed were testament to the overcrowding that had been of serious discussion in the press. As we wound our way down the dank streets just north of the London Docks it was strange to nearly trip over men laying in the streets. The sheer testament to need and wanting was in every sight, sound and smell. To push through a gaggle of children circled around fires for heat, coughing and shivering. It was a forlorn and friendless place.
Holmes sped me further and I realized how utterly lost in this crowd I’d be without him. Their obvious stagnation as a population hit in contrast to Holmes’s urging me deeper and deeper into the gloom. My friend on the other hand seemed to not notice this, his eye always on the case at hand. I knew better than to assume the coldness that Stamford had initially warned me of after our first meeting for his gaggle of spies and Irregulars from these very streets were always well paid for their work. But it made me ache that our grandest city in such a realm as ours had this dark side.
Holmes stopped abruptly stopped us and we retraced our steps back two streets before continuing down another. If Holmes had not told me he’d made a specific study of the streets for this case I would not had noted this as some lapse, but it spoke to the preoccupation I had noticed. We seemed to be back on track and as we made one last turn, I was suddenly shocked by the desertion of the street. I had the faith in Holmes to know that as long as I stayed by his side, he would know where we were. Twisting and turning down the cobble stone I had the sudden feeling that we had left London far behind and instead were trailing into the heart of some labyrinth. The few storefronts were dark and dusty and soon their signs mirrored the eerie markings of the note Holmes had showed me in the cab. This was no longer London but some ancient world of which I was only a visitor. These streets were also deserted, or so they seemed. As my eyes adjust to the gloom I soon was able to see faces in the windows.
"Holmes...
"Strangers have an eye on them at all times in these streets, and those familiar are watched with two. This is not a our London, Watson, nor is this the East End we’ve just past through."
"But where is everyone?"
"It is their sabbath."
As the fog of dusk began to settle into the streets, we stopped in front of a door next to a darkened store front. Holmes knocked sharply twice and stood to wait. His eyes drifted to the doorpost above.
"This is the lady’s uncle’s shop?" I asked seeing the vast array of watches through the darkened window.
"Yes, Mordecai’s." Holmes said flatly. It was a strange tone for my friend at such a point of a case.
"Are you alright, Holmes?"
Holmes nodded once in ascent just as the door opened. The man that answered struck quite a figure in the doorframe, casting a long shadow against the brightness inside and the gloom without. He was shorter than both Holmes and myself, but had a lean frame and glasses that spoke to his profession.
"Ah Sigerson!" He grasped my friends hand in a joyful shake. "Oh forgive me, Holmes. How good to see you again!" In spite of the circumstances that man seemed to almost electric in his joy. He quickly ushered us in through the hall and into the shop and just stood looking at my friend. In the brightness, I couldn’t be very sure, but it looked as though Holmes had a reddened hue upon his face. I wondered if it were some embarrassment of recalling those many years away, leaving me to believe him dead. Confronted with a very lively relic of those years I was sorely excluded from, I felt some a bitterness toward this man for the knowledge he had that I lacked.
"This is my friend, Doctor Watson." Holmes introduced us.
He grasped my hand in the same fashion. "It is very good to finally meet you, Doctor. Holmes, or Sigerson as I knew him then, told me of your chronicles. Since coming to England in the spring I have made sure to read them. An interesting life you share."
I thanked him very kindly and left Holmes to explain his findings while I took to browsing the shop and considering their interaction. Holmes and Mordecai exchanged a few sentences in rushed, hushed, tones. I tried to pitch myself in a position to hear, but could make nothing out. The shop was filled with the most remarkable oddities, not just watches and clocks, but souvenirs that inspired that same rush of exoctic ferver the writing had. Dusty books and watches were a plenty, but amongst a selection of boxes I saw something familiar. Pulling the paper with Holmes’s reproduction of the marks out of my pocket, I compared the two.
"Holmes, these are the markings!" I picked up the box and deposited it on the counter next to the two men. Holmes examined it closely.
"That is the Golem, Doctor." Mordecai said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Golem. A creature made of clay."
"Explain," Holmes urged.
"The Golem," He elucidated. "Is fashioned as a protector, in the legend he is made out of clay by a Rabbi, in the same way that God fashioned Adam. But the Golem is imperfect as man is imperfect. He can do only what the Rabbi orders. Every home the Rabbi marks off, he protects. Those markings in the street are what keep harm from the doors of the faithful and good."
"Yours had no marking." Holmes said bluntly.
Mordecai went pale. "You know as I that there are some that deem me neither faithful, nor good." He looked to Holmes and for a moment it appeared to me that some silent communication took place between them. I wondered how long they had spent together, and, dare I say, in what manner they had known each other. Threads of my own investigation appeared to be coming together now. This man had appeared in England in the spring, perhaps about the time we had returned from Cornwall. Mordecai’s joy, his quixotic explanations, and Holmes’ odd behaviour in his presence made me feel a certain distrust for this man. Holmes sniffed and shifted slightly.
"But, that is just a single opinion." Mordecai continued.
"What are we to do Holmes?" I asked, to return us to the case at hand.
"A trap." Holmes shuffled through the pockets of his coat before disappearing out the front door again. There was some shuffling at the door before his return.
"We will wait the evening out, here." Holmes moved a few things around by the storefront window, setting up a makeshift watch post. "And keep a close watch."
Holmes seated himself with the best vantage point and I sat next to him while Mordecai took the place opposite. As we settled down to wait I could feel the tautness in my friends body, ready to spring at a notice.
"Shouldn’t we have called Lestrade, Holmes? This is about his man after all."
"No, this is about the girls father. As for the jailbird, Lestrade can have him, but I will not have his branch of the constabulary descend into this shop without reason."
"Thank you, Holmes." Mordecai said in a soft whisper.
I cannot give name to the confusion that this vehement refusal, and Mordecai’s obvious relief caused. I first wondered if this had anything to do with the antagonistic relationship this end of London and the Jews had with the police, but Mordecai was no criminal. I tried to put Holmes’ methods to work.
Mordecai was being targeted from his own community by strict removal of the protection sign. I deduced it meant some broken taboo. I looked at the man himself, and compared to the general dilapidated clutter of his shop, he was certainly un petit-maître as was the vogue to call an immaculately dressed gentleman in the city these days. Not a figure one would expect here of all places. He displayed a tactile nature with Holmes, as in his greeting. With so close a familiarity, I wondered in that moment, not for the first time, about my friends affinities. As an army man, I had seen and known all sorts in times when all supposed morality looks insignificant in the face of complete destruction. In combination with the conclusion to the Cornish horror case, and now meeting this spectre from Holmes’ life, I considered my friend his with these new possibilities. Still, even as I write this down, I know I gained nothing from seeing Holmes, eyes were poised unmoving from the window, but my own roiled confusion between morals, the law, and my own thoughts.
Our vigil lasted well into the night. Just as my eyes began feeling the strain of a long journey south and the energy of a case began to wane a large shuffling form rounded into our sight. My stomach sank at the grotesque figure. "Holmes!" I said in a loud whisper, my hand going to my pocket to remove my revolver. Holmes’ hand clamped down on my arm and stopped me. His hot breath ghosted across my ear and he leaned over and whispered. "He may be a sight, Watson, but he is our missing man remember. The Golem is a protector."
"You don’t really believe in that Holmes?"
"I believe the man is certainly protecting these streets, but a man he is. Only made of as much clay as your or I."
"Then what are we doing?"
"Stopping murder and a good man from going to prison. Look," Homes pointed out the window.
While my eyes had been watching the gigantic figure, another player had come onto the scene, carrying something long that glinted in the moonlight, heading straight to Mordecai’s door. The Golem struck quicker than I would have supposed he could. From our vantage point, we saw the smaller man, Thornton I assume, being tossed easily away from the door and into the wall, the Golem moving after him. Holmes sprang and was out the door while I followed close behind and Mordecai brought up the rear.
The massive man turned at Holmes, rage in his eyes and before either of us could react he flung one arms at Holmes and sent him hurtling to the ground.
"Holmes!" My body instinctually lurched toward rushing to my friend’s side, but Mordecai got there quicker. When the man began to round on me, cutting me off from Holmes, I fired my service revolver into the air and the man froze immediately.
I could see him assessing Mordecai, in tandem with Holmes and myself and realizing his error. He stepped toward Holmes, who held up a hand to stop him. "You’re job here is done, Mr. Goldfeld." Holmes said through clenched teeth. "Go home." The man bowed and shuffled away. "Watson, check Thornton."
While I did as Holmes asked, I witnessed Holmes push Mordecai’s offer of help away. I suddenly realized that the glimpse of some affiliation between my friend and Mordecai was either unrequited or long over. I swiftly went to his side once I was sure the convict was unconscious and ordered Mordecai to watch him. Holmes accepted my help and together we got to him to his feet stiffly.
We met Lestrade and his constables at the same corner Holmes and I had stopped at in the evening. We were a different pair now with Holmes walking slowly and hanging onto my arm. Thornton marching sluggishly in front with my gun aimed at his back. We explained that we’d lost the one that had stopped Thornton.
"Lost him?" Lestrade repeated incredulously. "How could you lose him? He must have been a large lad to do this to this one." He gestured to the wagon now holding Thornton.
"Well, perhaps he crumbled to dust and took off on the wind." Holmes wheezed out with a laugh inspite of his injuries. Holmes’ enjoyment was often only present for case related things, but there was a gleam in his eyes whenever he had the chance to thwart Lestrade for some greater moral standard.
When finally made our return to Baker Street in the early morning hours. It had been a slow, arduous drive back as I kept my friend braced against my body to prevent any more injury from the jostling cab. I was worried that if it was a broken rib than any excess movement could lead to something more serious and even more so by how light my friend was in my arms. Neither of us were young men any more, but Holmes had always stood as a figure that was not confined to the mere body weaknesses and yet, as I helped him up our stairs I realize that it was only I that was privy to the life of Sherlock Holmes.
I helped him remove his jacket and shirt. I held back a gasp at the bruising already forming, but as I prodded against each rib, I relaxed. "It doesn’t appear you’ve broken anything, Holmes. You are lucky this time, old boy."
"What then, my good doctor Watson, is the prescribed course then."
"Several days rest, and as much warm tea and food as our landlady will bring to you. You must eat, Holmes. Do not think that I did not notice your pallor upon my return. You cannot expect to move as swiftly as you once did without proper nourishment."
Holmes let out a low, quiet laugh. "I would expect nothing less of you, having been under my tutelage these many years. "
"You have not explained two things about this case Holmes. Mordecai said that a Rabbi must send the Golem."
"That is neither our business, nor the law’s. Mordecai will bring it to their order’s attention.
"And Mordecai himself, who erased the sign from his door, and why?"
To answer that question would force me to break a shared confidence." Holmes paused and turned his grey eyes on me. "But, I suspect you’d garnered the reason during our vigil."
I was about to tell him I knew nothing of his reasoning, but Holmes interrupted. "We were two strangers in a forsaken land. Nor would he have been nearly as fantastical a biographer." He chuckled fondly and closed his eyes.
As conclude this entry, Holmes is still recuperating and for once following my orders. It will still be some days before he has regained his full mobility, but, as he is now joining me by the fire in our usual chairs, it feels distant from those nights during that busy summer of 1897.
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Date: 2014-11-28 07:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-28 09:25 pm (UTC)Otherwise, it was a nice case fic! It feels like it was well-researched, the details about the Golem legend and east end were interesting. I did enjoy it; thanks Anon!
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Date: 2014-11-28 09:40 pm (UTC)Thank you for writing this Anon.
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Date: 2014-11-28 09:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-29 01:38 pm (UTC)I'm from Czech Republic, and its capital - Prague - is very closely connected with Golem myth, so it really reminded me of all those legends about Golem I've heard as a child.
Splendid job.
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Date: 2014-11-29 09:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-30 12:47 am (UTC)